Edinburgh Escorts

The dangers of tanning

Something interesting is happening in my work, and it started last week with this new client. He was suntanned. I don’t mean bright red and covered in blisters, I mean even medium-brown shade all over. I honestly don’t have an excuse other than it’s October and I’ve been having sex with pasty gringos since I moved to Scotland 7 forevers ago. He also looked smitten silly, but that’t not my excuse, that’s his decision. We were meant to have drinks or whatever the plan was, but I stood up and went to his room and he followed. I pushed him onto the bed, sat on top of him and, speaking as slowly as I could manage at the moment, made it clear that he was suntanned and I was premenstrual and he’d get his pampering later or possibly even elsewhere, because I had better use for him right then. If he minded, he wasn’t fast or loud enough.

This honestly isn’t how I work. I have megabytes of WordPress content which shows my work style as pretty much the opposite of pouncing on smitten men and taking them prisoner. I usually tiptoe gently around them and make sure we do everything at the speed they are comfortable with. That was the first foray into paid sex for him, and likely the last one, because, going by his pre-meeting communication, he was looking for a different sort of experience, the tiptoeing thing. And if I am totally honest, I’m not even too sure about what we did. All I know is that I left that hotel eventually and it was still October outside, and for a change I didn’t care. One thing I remember relatively clear about the whole date is him talking about the standards I seem to have for clients, and at the time I thought, ‘Not right now!’

I’ve been told many times things like “your site makes you look like an arrogant bitch while you’re actually a nice person”, and “you enjoy challenging men, don’t you?” and lots of similar things. And today (I think I’m getting to the point of this blog) I received this mail from a client-to-be:

Edinburgh escorts

And when a man is right (rarely), a man is right. I do have expectations, and I do make them clear, but all my expectations are basically summed up by “don’t be a dick”. And frankly, if you find this challenging, then thank you for not meeting me. What the suntanned man brought up in me, and what the client-to-be is saying – and what I am finally getting thanks to them! – is that I want adult stuff. Client-to-be phrases it as “sex between equals” but let’s be fair, I will always be a little more equal than you, so sex between adults is what I really always wanted in my work. And I do get adult clients, but then I also get these men who are regular clients, good clients, but not actually adult in the end, and the “relationship” ends because they can’t handle the emotions brought up by my presence. I think 3 of these are mentioned in the blog, and 3 more happened since that I just couldn’t be bothered to write about. Even though the people are different and the issues are diverse, to me it feels repetitive. These relationships were what I enjoyed most about my work, but I think this is now changing.

Do you know what I want? I want a man who can take his heart, fold it into origami orchid, put it into my hand on top of the cash and say that it’s mine for the night and he’ll be man enough in the morning to not blame me for his decisions. Like I said, adult stuff.

I think the bottom line here is that while I will still be working with disabled people (and I have been questioning this aspect of my work as well recently) and with young (and old) people who need experience – because I don’t think I can make myself become less caring – I am done with the educaring aspect of my work otherwise. I am retiring as a companion, which has been my tag line and identity for the last 6 years. I am now a lady of pleasure. Maybe even your lady of pleasure, if you’re not a dick. I am not yet sure what the difference is  – at least not in words – but I feel it growing inside and I quite like this feeling. This is going to be exciting!

Some men do it professionally

I have a recent addition to my client collection. I’ll call him Prop for now. He spent the last 30 years of his life playing rugby. And you now think you know why he’s Prop. You don’t. Read on. Do you really expect me to be that predictable?

The first time I saw Prop, I noticed he had a habit of touching himself. A common habit in married people. But the majority quickly quit when presented with something else to touch. Not Prop. I introduced the rule straight away: if you touch yourself, you then either use the other hand to touch me with, or you wash your hands. Prop wasn’t entirely happy with that. Few people are ambidextrous. Ambidexterity is encouraged in many sports and arts, but sex work is never mentioned for this talent. The need for safety quickly teaches you to use one hand for your clients and the other one for yourself. Clients – obviously – rarely develop this skill, you’ll use your dominant hand to touch anything. Which means that on our second date Prop still touches himself and then reaches for me with the same hand.

Jewel: You just touched yourself! Go wash your hands!

Prop: I didn’t! It’s unfair!

Jewel: <silently points her index finger in the direction of the bathroom>

Prop: <glowers, growls, gets up, goes to the bathroom>

Fifteen minutes later, Prop touches himself and reaches for me with the same hand.

Jewel: You just touched yourself! Go wash your hands!

Prop: Did I? When? I would have noticed!

Jewel points her finger.

Prop gets up and goes to the bathroom.

You probably think I enjoy it. I don’t, actually. The constant interruption doesn’t make my job easier, and the constant need to be alert means I can’t relax.

Fifteen minutes later – yes, you know what’s coming! – he touches himself, then reaches for me and… smacks himself in the forehead. ‘I fecking touched myself! Did you see it?’ He sighs, gets up and goes to the bathroom.

Edinburgh escorts
A card I received from one of my clients

I love these little moments of sudden self awareness. I often wonder how many things about myself I’m not aware of.

And if you are still curious, here’s the promised revelation.

Jewel: (who up until 2 minutes ago used to think that the game they sometimes show in American films is rugby. Who’d think it’s foot-ball? They carry the ball!) So what’s the main skill in rugby then?

Prop: (rather amused by now) It depends on your position in the game.

Jewel: There are positions there???

Prop: Of course. First, there’s, erm, a hooker, it’s the person who, well, hooks. Hooks the ball. Next to the hooker there are props. They support the hooker. Then there are…

Jewel: Was that your position? Prop?

Prop: No.

Jewel: But you do such a good job of supporting the hooker!

The but

Yes, there’s only one letter t in that but.

As part of my investigations into a potential client’s needs, I received this:

I don’t want to give a typical male sob story so hope this doesn’t come across like that. I’ve been married a long time and our life is good – apart from the sex […] and it leaves me unfulfilled.

And it really is a typical male story (I disagree with sob), at least from my professional point of view. All my married clients use the same words: “our relationship is good, but (insert the but of your choice: but there is no sex, but the sex we have is very basic, but my partner doesn’t want me, but I don’t get the intimacy I need, etc) and I feel unfulfilled”. Will I appear radical by saying that goodbut actually means bad? Because goodbut doesn’t mean good. You’d never say “The weather is good but it’s raining”. You say “Damn, the weather is horrid again”. When you buy something from Amazon and it doesn’t do what it’s meant to do, you don’t post a positive review of “It’s good but it doesn’t work”. No, you return the item! Acknowledging that the relationship actually isn’t good is a good start. We don’t have this problem with things: if it’s broken – we see it, if we don’t like it – we say so. But when it comes to relationships, it’s never broken/ of poor quality/ unsatisfactory – no, it’s good. But.

First of all, we need to blame the parents. For the obvious reasons. If they only provided us with the goodbut relationship model, then a goodbut relationship is all we’ll be looking for. Secondly, we need to blame the parents for the less obvious reasons: for not bringing us up with the feeling of self-worth that would prevent us from settling for goodbut relationships.

More than anyone else, however, the responsible party is us. We don’t often enough get into a relationship with the awareness of our reasons for it – because this is the standard against which the success of something is measured. If you buy a violin because you want to make music, a crack in its body will spoil your plans. But the same violin will be a boon if all you want is to annoy the hell out of your neighbours. So if you don’t know what is important to you in a relationship, how can you tell if it’s working for you? Especially in a culture which is big on telling you what your relationship should be like. If you got into a relationship because you didn’t want to be lonely, and now you have a beautiful home, an attractive partner and a bunch of kids but you’re still lonely – it’s not working that well for you, is it?Edinburgh escorts

The truth is, among the billions of people on this planet there will always be others who have the same need (or lack thereof) for sex as you, the same life goals as you, the same attitudes to relationships as you. But we settle for whoever comes first and don’t give ourselves time to find someone who meets the needs that are important to us. And because a relationship is forever – nobody doubts this axiom, I hope – we find ourselves living unfulfilled lives, forever. Because god forbid you voice your worries to your partner, or worse, start working on having your needs met and getting some happiness in this life. And I don’t mean sex. I am talking about any aspect of a relationship that is important to you personally and in which your needs aren’t met. A relationship is there to enrich your life, not to turn it into a mind-numbingly boring descent into death.

All that said, I’m not in a relationship myself, so ignore me. The reason I’m not in a relationship though is this poem by Omar Khayyám:

You better starve, than eat whatever
And better be alone, than with whoever.

This isn’t the first time I tell people how to live their lives. Here is another possible reason of unfulfilling relationships, and ways of dealing with them.

————————

In other news, there’s a blog entry out of timeline here, and I’m off to England in a few days. St Valentine’s in Cambridge will be exciting! Come be mine!

New Year resolution

First of all, there are new clients introduced here and here. And I’ll start straight away with the conversation I had with one of them, as it made a lasting impression. We were discussing Prince’s needs and I tried to explain that while I’m good at some things, I’m definitely not perfect at everything that he may fancy, so

As I tried to explain last night, my forte is in building a relationship with clients, not in steamy sex where even neighbours have a cigarette. If you are looking for kinky sex, I’m not the best option for you: I am not kinky by nature, and I tend to be turned on by a client’s personality (where it’s present) rather than by sex itself, but I am good at teaching people things and providing feedback.

I expected anything but this in response:

The neighbour would have a subtle, knowing smile and a Gauloise!

Edinburgh escortsPrince has the talent of giving most vivid imagery in simple words. Now and again I can see Jean Marais in his hotel room in the Negresco, lighting up and shaking his head slightly to the sounds coming from behind a wall.

This New Year I spent with a client. I don’t think the neighbours were inclined to smoke: they must have been exhausted. So I’ll concentrate on other things. We were in the city centre for the fireworks over the castle. There was quite a crowd. At midnight, when the fireworks started, a small group of German tourists in front of us cheered loudly, interhugged and interkissed, and then moved further to congratulate everyone around. We happened to be the closest to them. They took turns to shake my client’s hand and then everyone wanted to kiss me on the cheek while screaming “Happy New Year!”

I felt like these strangers were invading my personal space. I gave a polite smile, I stretched my hand as far out as possible to shake theirs, and all this time I secretly hated myself. These people wanted to share their joy with me and to wish me happiness, and I, in a sudden fit of britishness, couldn’t even thank them properly for it. A few years ago I had been this person to wish a happy year to every stranger. This is how it should be! What’s happened to me?

Meanwhile, the fireworks were over and reminded me that everything comes to an end one day. It made me see that I’m going through the best time of my life so far. Sooner or later things will change and my life will become different. I always knew I’d been lucky to get into this job, but as years go I feel more and more appreciative. I get to make the world better. How many people can say the same about their jobs? Fair enough, I will never save the rain forests, and poverty will still be around once I retire, but I change the world one person at a time. I change some clients’ moods and other clients’ lives. I am constantly touched by how grateful and trusting my clients are. They let me into their open arms and their lives and allow me to add their personal experiences to my “pool of male consciousness”. Whatever happens later, this knowledge is always with me and I can go on helping people even when I can’t sell sex anymore. And all because my clients let me, a stranger, come close. So the new year resolution is to drop this British nonsense and hug strangers whenever appropriate.

Heavy petting in Glasgow

On the morning of my birthday I wake up in Glasgow. Not the place where I would usually want to spend such a day, but this time it’s worth it. I don’t remember the morning. Most probably it passed by in the shadow of the great expectations I had for the evening.

I meet Walter at 5pm in Buchanan Street, outside House of Fraser. We are going shopping! At least he thinks we are.

Shopping was his idea. The e-mail detailing the Master Plan for the day mentioned shoes, handbags, shoes, clothes, shoes, jewellery, shoes, books, shoes, and oh, did he forget shoes? And while he was being very generous, it can be difficult for a man to guess a woman’s needs, so I had to hint that a pair of shoes would be really nice.

This isn’t the first time I go shopping with Walter. We also went shopping for lingerie once, but this doesn’t count because it was a new experience for both of us. Shoe shopping, on the other hand, is quite ordinary. I don’t know how he usually does it, here’s how I do it. I need a pair of winter boots. I go online. Find the website of the shop I have in mind. Look at all the boots they have. Do they have something in black, with a round toe, 3 inch heel, leather, below ankle and with a concealed zip? No? Next website then! So when we meet and walk into a shop, all I need is to find the shoes I chose the night before and try them on. Walter, do you like them? Great, we’re done then! Now let’s go do something fun! If it’s not clear, shopping is an action, not a pastime. I think Walter was disappointed.

We have a drink at the bar of my hotel. I puzzle the bartender with my request for a non-alcoholic cocktail (come on, I’m allowed to let my hair down on my birthday! It can’t be sparkling water every day of the year)  – they don’t have these on the menu.

‘Would you like Safe Sex on the Beach?’

‘Oh yes, I’m all for safe sex!’

Walter chuckles quietly.

And then, with pleasantries out of the way, it’s time to do what we’ve been looking forward to for a while. Walter pays quickly, we make for the lifts, I pinch his bum impatiently as we wait, doors open, we rush in, kiss passionately until the doors open again and we are in the swimming pool. It’s an ordinary hotel swimming pool: small, simple, mostly empty. When I come out of the change room, Walter is already there. The first thing he says is that my swim suit is classy. Not the sort of word you usually apply to a swim suit, and not the sort of word I’ve heard from Walter before, so I take it as a compliment. He gives my swimming attire another good look and points at the sign with the pool rules:

No running

No diving

No pushing

No screaming

No smoking

No heavy petting

Walter is a very law abiding citizen. During our multiple adventures I couldn’t make him climb a fence with me, and he wouldn’t stay in an empty ladies bathroom to wait for me. So I’m glad I made him break at least this one rule. Oh alright, so he didn’t need to be forced into it, but he still wouldn’t have engaged in this prohibited activity without me: heavy petting on your own is called something else. I am also glad I got to see him swim. It was almost as good as watching him drive. Most people do different things in the same manner. Walter has a separate personality for a lot of activities. Driving Walter (especially in his road-rage mode) never fails to amuse me, same as disgusted Walter; swimming Walter is a joy to watch, loving Walter is a pleasure to do, and filming Walter is someone I haven’t figured out yet. And now you probably wonder which one of us in on medication.

We then have a lovely dinner at a place called Kama Sutra, and spend some time practicing – not at the place. We practice some more in the morning, and then he has to go. Glasgow immediately loses whatever appeal it had the day before. A wonderful birthday nevertheless.

Not Hamish

I’ve already mentioned HB to you – here – but he deserves a proper introduction.

A good way to describe HB is to compare him to Prince. The two men have a lot in common, but their approach to things is very different. In the regal paradigm of naming, HB’s title would be “King”. Where Prince glides through life with ease, grace and an air of insouciance, everything about HB is heavy, hard, solid, dead serious and set in stone. He even looks this way. The kingly image on the right is HB to a T – less high heels, stockings and raven locks, obviously. If he were to take on responsibility for an empire, every last stray dog in the realm could depend on him, but the place wouldn’t be fun. Edinburgh escorts' clientsFor the first half a year I was absolutely sure he has no sense of humour. The first time I saw him laugh was in February, during our Cornwall holiday. We were up early in the morning to be on time for Eden Project. I was still fumbling in my clothes, half asleep and grumpy, when he walked into the bedroom, all dressed, bright and breezy, with a smile on his face. ‘Oh stop smiling, it’s inappropriate before 10 am!’ I grumped*. And yes, he laughed – inappropriately, as you understand.

Our first date was quite late in the evening with no chance of a dinner out, so we’d agreed that we’d cook something. There was a small kitchen in his temporary Edinburgh home, I brought some vegetables, we made a salad and sat down to eat. All the while he was acting like this is completely normal. I’m not saying it’s not normal: people making a meal and eating together is one of the first things that made us different from animals, nothing is more normal than this. But when it comes to sex work, it’s not the sort of stuff you engage in on the first date. Most of my first dates are spent trying to reassure clients and make them feel comfortable around me, cooking only happened twice. I suppose it’s one of those things that people usually do in their family circle, and sharing it with a stranger is weird – far more weird than having sex with that stranger. But it wasn’t the last time HB showed that his line between personal from public isn’t that well-defined. The time when I had to explain it to him why it’s not ok to walk in on someone in the bathroom – even if you’ve already seen this person naked and even had sex with them – is proof enough.

And you probably want to know what HB stands for. Not Hamish Buccleugh or other hard to pronounce Scottish name. In fact, it’s not a name at all, but he does sign his e-mails as HB closer to our coming dates. Everything is simple. He got this nickname during our second date. It was a crispy cold November afternoon; I texted to let him know that I’m in a cab and should be there in 10 minutes.

HB: I’m waiting outside for you.

Jewel: Go inside, you’ll freeze your balls off!

HB: My balls are hot!! I want to greet you when you arrive.

Jewel: Well hello, Hot Balls!

_____________

* A totally valid claim.

Sticky (and icky) business

There’s this restaurant on the corner from my home, where Walter and I often end up when he comes to pick me up or drop me off. It’s a cosy, very intimate place with great food. The waiters haven’t changed in the few years that we’ve visited it. The manager (who, I believe, is also the owner) is a short plump man in his forties, with dark curly hair, a moustache and an accent, always in a fluffy cardigan.

I remember the first time I was there without Walter. I was welcomed, given a table, and asked where my partner was.

“Whooahhhhe’s away on business!”

So after that I would only go there on my own as an exception to the rule. When together with Walter, the manager just lets us be.

On one of those exceptional days I spent a delightful afternoon in bed with Nicole, with Prince somewhere in the background, hovering above us like the Ghost of Hamlet’s father now and again. As is his habit, there were chocolates, presents and flowers. In the evening, on my way home, I was tired, hungry, and laden with beautifully wrapped boxes. The idea of cooking was a turn off and I asked the cabbie to drop me at the restaurant.

It’s a small place so it was only when I walked in that I noticed something was wrong. It was empty except for an elderly couple at a table in the corner and the manager standing by them. I clearly interrupted their conversation. The manager welcomed me heartily and explained that X-factor and football nights were always quiet. He offered me a table next to the couple. Leaving at this point would be plain rude (Of course it’s the football night, what was I thinking about! Bye!) Asking for another table would be even ruder.

I arranged the presents and the flowers on the adjacent chairs and hid my face in the menu. Didn’t help.

“So what are the presents about?”

“Oh, these are all… you know… birthday presents.”

“Your birthday! Isn’t it brilliant! Happy birthday! Give me a second, we’ll get a cake for you! Anna! Where do we keep cake candles?”

“Don’t worry about it, please! PLEASE! You know I don’t do gluten anyway!”

“Ah, true! Pity! But wait, where’s your partner? You had a birthday party and he wasn’t there with you? Don’t tell me he is away on business on such a day!”

The elderly couple were looking at me expectantly.

“Er… He’s… Ok, here’s what… happened. My birthday was some time ago… and erm… the party tonight was… at work (looking down at my own business outfit – on Prince’s request). Yes, in the office. They… (turning to the elderly couple) they threw a party for me tonight because I was away on my actual birthday. With my partner… of course.”

“Aw, he organised a little trip for you?”

Sometimes people want a story. Sometimes people think they are being friendly, when in reality they are being bored with what’s going on around. Sometimes you happen to be the only prey available to them. And most of the time – in my experience – the least painful way of getting them off your back is to give them what they want. Even when I’m not paid for it.

We have twins, Nicky and Vicky. They started school this year and we’ve never had so much headache before. Yes, they are identical. Vicky is quite a tomboy, but it’s Nicky who is the real pain in the patella. Yes, you are right, he spoils them rotten, it’s all his fault. Anyway, for my birthday… No, Vicky is half an hour older. So on my birthday my partner took me away for a few days, so we could have some time to ourselves. Oh, grandparents love them, they would have the kids every weekend if I allowed!

And so on.

Needless to say, Walter laughed. Needless to say, he immediately called our children Icky and Sticky. Needless to say, now and again he still asks how they are doing at school. Needless to say, we will never go to this restaurant again. Ever.

I hate friendly people.

It’s in the detail

I met HB in September. It was a curious date but you’ll hear more later. It was obvious that he looked forward to it. He dressed up (because my blog says I like a well-dressed man), he invested heavily in chocolate (because my blog mentions chocolate and so do I), and he clearly spent some time reading my blog – the telltale signs of a detail fetishist. I’ve already described a few of these here, I just didn’t describe them in detail. Now is a good time.

Body

This type of detail fetish is quite common is certain circles. The Nutter. Being a researcher, he had an eye for detail. And this eye was always open. Everything he saw was filed away neatly between his braincells, evidence was presented, conclusions were drawn, summary was printed in triplicate for each relevant department and the research abstracts were made available to me on request. He gave me the most intimate present I have ever received. A shirt. How is a shirt intimate? It was a shirt in my size, of my favourite shirt brand, with my favourite type of cuff, in a colour I often choose myself. None of these parameters were ever discussed. Moreover, when I asked “But why a shirt?” he said something that never occurred even to me. Because I’m a shirt-wearer. When I thought I was dressed, he thought of the patterns that made this type of behaviour different from that of specimens of corresponding gender, age and occupation. I freaked out, went and bought 2 sweaters. Half a year after we’d parted ways I had to admit that he was right. I’m a shirt-wearer.

Soul

Walter has a heart for detail. He may be unable to recall what I wore for our last date, but he always knows how I’m going to react to something before I decide if I even want to react. Walter made it clear from the start that much as he enjoys the carnal part of our relationship, its less physical aspect is at least equally important to him; but it was our (almost) totally social date that made me see the bigger picture. During lunch we talked about the potential sequel to my video. A few days before that a client had shown me a video of a London lady which I, of course, shared with Walter. Unfortunately, the video isn’t there anymore, but it was a minute long shot of a provocatively dressed woman, tracing the outline of her hips, showing some skin above the stocking and then playing with her cleavage. The film was really well made, sufficiently tasteful, revealing and yet preserving the lady’s anonymity. I liked it, but I simply could not imagine having one of these myself. The inner resistance to it was puzzling to me until Walter shrugged and simply said, ‘This isn’t you. The London woman is playing with the viewer, showing off her assets. You don’t do this. You express your sexuality naturally: the way you move, the way you smile… To show how sexy you are, a film needs to show you doing everyday things.’

Ah, to have spent years selling your sexuality and have a man tell you how you best express it…

Mind

This last variation of detail fetish is most probably a by-product of a long unhappy relationship, although I can personally attest that certain occupations can also influence its development. It doesn’t come naturally to HB, it stems from his desire to please – a natural desire, but because his natural abilities to fulfil it have never been appreciated and therefore cultivated, he developed a mind for detail. Once an object is chosen, he takes it upon himself to read every scrap of information that can be found. Every e-mail. Every tweet. Every blog entry. Even I haven’t read them all. He’s done it twice. What he can’t find information about, he asks. And he listens. I commented on a beautiful fan in a shop window and I received it a few days later. I mentioned that I particularly like a specific gluten-free snack, and now I’m given it every time I see him (yes, I always think of Pavlov’s dog, too). The most memorable experience HB provided me with was finding lambs for me after I said I’d always wanted to see lambs up close – you’ll have to wait for the details, I’m afraid. Of course I’m pleased, but I’m also touched. I’ve been blessed with wonderful people for clients and the fact that some of them go out of their way to please me is nothing short of miraculous. I must have done something seriously good in my past lives.

Edinburgh escorts

Blackness kiss

Not sure if you remember, but Walter won a kiss in the Limerick Competition. And in case you don’t know, he had big plans for that kiss. Big Plans. We went through a few of them, mostly by location, and having ruled out North Berwick, Queensferry and Portobello, we decided to go with Blackness. To Blackness. What a strange, gothic name for a location which has nothing strange or gothic in it.

Edinburgh escorts

We drove for a while. First highways, then roads, then wooded lanes. In one of them, we passed a hen party – a dozen of pheasant girls talking loudly on a stone wall covered in moss and ivy by the side of the path. With each turn the journey was getting more and more surreal.

Walter parked behind some god forsaken church in the middle of a forest, got a backpack out of the boot and we went down a steep forest path. It was dry, still and unexpectedly warm for a September afternoon. The forest was very quiet. We came across a bridge over a little stream, followed the river, passed by a little shady bog and then suddenly there it was. I knew we were going to a beach but it was still a surprise.

Blackness beach is as wild as they come. Not a single soul there if you don’t count two thousand seagulls, and we had no desire to count them. We walked along the forest line for a while until we came to a spot which was less rocky, more sunny and decorated with bunches of cheerfully bright daisies. There Walter threw a plaid over the thin grass (in the true spirit of a non-Scot in Scotland), I took off my shoes, we snuggled up and the kiss started.

Edinburgh escorts

What shall I say about the kiss? The ground was too rocky, the plaid too thin, the wind too strong, the seagulls – the seagulls were being seagulls, I can hate them for it but not blame. Even two can be bad enough, and multiplied by a thousand… Yet it was the most romantic kiss I’ve had so far. A couple of hours later the sun went down, I got cold and hungry and the kiss had to stop.

It was quite dark when we got to Queensferry. We stopped there for a dinner which, for reasons I will not disclose (in this sentence), Walter now considers unforgettable. Apparently, a certain dish they serve there gives one erection of a lifetime – yes, it lasts that long, I can attest this myself. Before that, however, Walter left the table to pay the bill and came back with a single red rose. I still don’t know where he got it, he wouldn’t say. I’ve never been there so have to ask – are men’s toilets decorated with flower arrangements? In Queensferry?

We made it to the hotel eventually. In the morning, after a very short night (I told you it was erection of a lifetime) Walter kindly took a few (more) pictures of me. This involves another man, I’m afraid. A gentleman I’d never met generously supplied me with lovely lingerie and no, he didn’t ask for the photos in return. I suggested it myself. In case you’re in doubt – no, I don’t usually send out my photos left, right and centre. I don’t need to, you can copy them from my website. If it’s not there, then it’s not for everyone. Which is why you get to see this.

 Edinburgh escorts photos

Look closely. It must have been a very good meal if you can have this in bed and still attribute your erection to food. And no, I’m not telling you what restaurant it was.

You know what? I’m glad I ran that Limerick Competition. Some wonderful things came out of it.

Dauphins, divine heroes and decorations

There aren’t enough letters in the English alphabet. Well, enough for the language but not for me. It’s not that I ran out of letters to mark clients by (which, in turn, is not because I have had fewer clients than there are letters in the English alphabet), the problem here is that there aren’t many male names that would start with Z or X or Q. On the other hand, the amount of Daniels, Deans, Donalds, Darrens, Dominics, Douglases… Don’t even start me on Davids and dicks. So this one will be called Prince, and not just because of his princely name. His features, his figure, his bearing, his manners, his voice, his words – everything about him exudes composed and dignified refinement. Not the affected sort, but the one that shows breeding and innate elegance. Composed and dignified refinement comes off him in generous waves and engulfs you until you feel you’re soaking it in through your pores. Yet he’s so light-hearted, easy and romantic that, regardless of his age and royal mien, king is not his title. If there were a stereotype of a retired dauphin, this man would be its embodiment.

On our first date he impressed me with a line of presents. The biggest surprise was not in the presents but in how they were presented. The flowers, the box, the envelope were all done in the same colour scheme and were accompanied with a hard copy of a poem dedicated to me. I love clients with good taste. I always take them as a compliment.

The second date we started at the National Gallery. It was enjoyable because we soon agreed that most classical figure painting can be divided into 2 categories: religious motifs and wanking material. Sometimes these categories overlap.

Edinburgh escorts

Look at this painting. What purpose does it serve? It’s clearly not there to remind you of the pain Jesus went through to save the human kind. So it’s for decoration purposes only. And since throughout most of history women were decorative objects rather than agents, what image is better placed to be decorative than that of a woman? However, if all you really wanted was to decorate a wall, does the woman have to be naked? Probably not.

And in case it’s not obvious, these aren’t just objective images of nude women. They didn’t have Playboy in those days, they had something better: a bunch of tireless blokes who instead of photoshop used their imagination to create something iconic yet ubersexy. Because from an aesthetic point of view that booty ain’t no accident. And if you still feel it doesn’t inspire any wanking in you, consider this. From the Middle Ages till fin de siècle (and even nowadays in case or Ireland) most married men of middle class never saw a naked woman live. Everything to do with procreation happened in the dark, under the sheets, and a good wife would still have at least 6 items of clothing on. If I were one of those men and I got to put this on one of my walls, I’d wank like there’s no tomorrow. Because what we miss in porn nowadays is its user’s imagination.

Edinburgh escortsLook at this beauty. You can choose to be her lover, or one of the young voyeurs, or join them for a threesome, or you could prefer to go for the bloke. And whatever point of view you take, from there on your imagination will provide you with everything you need, including the finer details of your imaginary lover’s body that are not visible on the painting. In case you’re interested, this is Heracles and Omphale, or just another proof that even mythology in art was a cover up for high quality porn. I mean, think of everything Heracles is famous for. Of course, mostly it’s his farming labours (Cretan bull, mares of Thrace, Erymanthian boar, the Hesperides’ apples, Geryon’s cattle, Augean stables) but he also had a brief career as a sperm donor for the 50 children he fathered with 50 sisters. And of all these deeds you choose to paint the moment when he makes out with his wife?

And the apotheosis of wanking material: all sorts of genders in all sorts of races and all sorts of sizes. By a Scottish painter. You can tells Scots have little to do on those long winter nights.

Edinburgh escorts

You can also tell the second date was quite successful after we left the Gallery.